


Forty-eight hours pass, and I'm longing to stay

by Chaosandgunpowder



Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is a manic lawyer, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, They're both twisted little bastards, Thomas is a mob boss, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaosandgunpowder/pseuds/Chaosandgunpowder
Summary: [Jamilton Mob!verse ft. mob-boss Thomas and manic-lawyer Alex] in which Alex causes trouble, James tries to keep all of their shit together, and Thomas is a little bit late for a meeting and everybody but himcompletely fucking overreacts.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930312
Comments: 98
Kudos: 158





	1. Alex

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I might stretch my legs and try something a little different for this one; a deeper dive into one specific 48-hours in the life of these boys. There will be three parts, each showing us a little more about a certain incident mentioned in _I know, you know, who that person is to me_ and the events surrounding it. Hope you like it?
> 
> [For timeline purposes, this is set after _We don’t need a globe_ and towards the end of _I know, you know._ ]

Alex knew it had been too good to last. He’d managed to actually get a solid few hours of uninterrupted work in, set up in one of Thomas’s many unused rooms, before he’s disturbed at least, even though the house sounds busy today. He doesn’t know whether it’s fear of Thomas keeping them out of this room and bothering him or whether they’d all just learned by now to let him get on with his shit by himself since the last time someone had interrupted him and gotten a verbal avalanche for it, but either way he’s grateful for the afternoon of quiet until Madison finally finds him. 

He walks in holding a bag and an envelope, takes one look at Alex cross legged on a plastic sheet on the floor with four eyeballs, a mini screwdriver and an industrial battery pack and blinks. Blinks again. Then shakes his head.

“You know what, I don’t even want to know. Please don’t tell me.”

Just for that, and because he’s feeling contrary, Alex sniffs and does anyway; tries to be as gross as possible. “I want to know whether there’s a correlation between voltage and whether they burst or just fry the jelly and rupture. I’m a fucking scientist.” 

“You’re a fucking psychopath,” Madison corrects.

“Potayto, potahto,” Alex shrugs, already refocusing on his task, because it’s far more interesting than being glared at by the mafia equivalent of a den mother. “Don’t fuckin’ shit yourself, they’re not _human_.” 

He’s absolutely not bitter that Herc didn’t have anything more appropriate he could scavenge. Madison scoffs skeptically when Alex mutters _got a case._

“You’re trying to _blow up eyeballs_ for _work_?” 

Alex smiles faux sweetly up at him, just to be a dick. “I thought you didn’t want to know?” 

“Oh shut the fuck up. Take this for tonight,” he snaps and holds out the bag to Alex, only to tut and pull it back when he reaches for it. “Wipe your hands first, you fucking animal.”

He’s going with Thomas tonight to meet some old friend of Thomas’s late father’s, even though he’d not heard from the guy in fucking years before he popped up last week acting like an estranged godfather, jovially asking for a catch up and offering to meet Alex. Alex tries not to get too involved in his shit, but he’s pretty sure Thomas thinks Richards is just after money _\- oh hey kiddo, remember when I was your favorite uncle, I hear good things, you’re doing well, apparently you’ve settled down, let’s meet your boyfriend then, pretend we’re family, oh by the way I’m super fucking broke, help an old friend out -_ but he’s apparently willing to let it play out for now and see. Alex doesn’t give enough of a shit about it either way to object to going along with him for once; on the one hand it might be boring as fuck, but on the other he might get to see Thomas in his element which doesn’t happen all that often, and god knows it revs his engine, so it’s worth the risk of being bored for a few hours. Alex will find some way to entertain himself when they inevitably disappear to _talk business_ if he needs to, he’s sure. 

He rolls his eyes and wipes his bloody fingertips up his jeans, bitches as he grabs the bag, _yes, yes of course, god forbid we get blood anywhere in this fucking house, like it’s full of fucking prom queens, like you didn’t just come back from-_

It’s a bulletproof vest. A thin but sturdy and _really-fucking-expensive_ looking bulletproof vest. Alex throws it abruptly on the floor like it’s burned him and scowls at it. 

“I’m not fucking wearing that, you’re out of your goddamn mind-“

“Alexander, please,” Madison sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. “I really can’t cope with your shit today.”

“Great,” Alex glares. “ _Perfect_. Then we’re done here.”

Madison groans like he wants to high-five Alex in the face with a chair. He probably does. Alex feels vindictively satisfied at the knowledge he’d never dare. However it might gall James, they both know Thomas wouldn’t have it, would always pick Alex if there was any kind of choice to be made. He wonders absently if he hates Alex a little for usurping that spot of most-important-person. 

He thinks if it was anyone other than Thomas, he’d maybe feel bad. 

Maybe.

Madison looks flatly over at him and brandishes the envelope like a weapon he’d clearly suspected he’d need but hoped he’d not have to use to beat Alex into submission. It rankles him so much that he’s so predictable that he almost thinks about throwing it in the glowing fireplace without looking at it, but his fingers slide over the satin-coated surface of what must be a photograph inside and his curiosity outweighs his pettiness. 

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s not for it to be a zoomed in surveillance photo; Thomas carrying him out of _that_ meeting with Monroe, and Alex’s mind snarls at him to _turn it over and put it away_ in a tone suspiciously like Thomas’s whenever anyone dares to bring up _the incident_ , even two months later. He thinks absently how fucking _small_ he looks in Thomas’s arms before he gets stuck on the fact that Thomas is obviously _crying_ , shiny lines down his cheeks, face distraught and he sort of feels like he’s been hit in the chest with a bowling ball. He doesn’t really remember a lot of that day, remembers that dot on Thomas’s forehead and how his insides had retched at the sight of it, he remembers Thomas’s sweaty hand on his face and the grounding hum of the car vibrating underneath him, but the details are lost to blood loss and copious amounts of pain relief. He didn’t mind before now. Thomas wants to pretend it didn’t happen; it’s easier for Alex to do that for him if he doesn’t remember, anyway. 

_Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?_ he wants to say, or maybe _is this some kind of weird threat?_ or even _really not my best angle_ but his mouth won’t work around any of those and he ends up spitting out;

“Where the fuck did you get this?”

“Seabury had it,” James mutters. “I guess one of his guys took it at the time.”

He keeps talking; mentions how Seabury had found it _interesting;_ had filed it away to _use it later_. Use _it_ , like Alex is nothing but a blunt weapon to be used to hurt Thomas. He hates it so much he feels bile clawing up his throat. Madison wants him to wear it if he’s going to _go to work with Thomas_ , and Alex thinks he probably hates that he’s not going with them. It’s all completely fucking irrational of course. He’s overcompensating; dealing with his lingering anxiety over the whole incident by smothering. Thomas doesn’t leave the house without James asking where he’s going, Alex thinks he might have even snuck a tracker on him but he hasn’t asked. It’s bugging the shit out of Thomas but _he’s_ the one going around brandishing knives at anyone that even mentions it, so he can’t really talk either. They’re both tense as fuck over it still, and being utterly ridiculous. While Madison speaks, Alex reflexively, repetitively taps his still-red fingertip right over the tear tracks on Thomas’s shiny, glossy face until his hand cramps and he thinks he might actually throw up. He can’t stop looking at it. He swallows. 

“Did he- has anyone else seen it?”

“I really fucking hope not. As far as I know it’s just you, me and a bunch of hypothetical corpses underwater somewhere.” James says, serious and a little low, like the fact that Thomas adores him is a secret to be protected between the two of them and not something that Thomas bandies about freely. Maybe it is; no one needs to know for sure just exactly _how_ easy it would be to ruin him. 

Alex almost snorts at the weird, unsubtle vagueness. He thinks maybe James still doesn’t completely trust him enough to be straight up, or maybe he’s taking cues from Thomas and trying to keep Alex _out;_ as best he can, given their circumstances. He’s doing a piss poor job if so, but it’s sweet nonetheless, like he doesn’t know Alex would just go ahead and lie like Thomas’s life depended on it if he had to. If it _did_ depend on it. 

Alex would do anything if Thomas depended on it. 

“Put on the damn vest.” James says quietly. “Please, Alexander.”

Alex throws the photograph in the fire. 

He puts on the damn vest.

~~~

He does it under considerable duress, but he does it. 

He’ll just wear it for a little bit, a few times until they’ve both calmed down and gotten the fuck over it, he tells himself. 

He actually puts on the vest twice, because when he does it the first time, Thomas’s face goes hard and then soft and then a little crumpled and he takes it back off of Alex, lays him down and spreads him open, fucks him quick but gentle, like he’s made of glass, presses kisses and then his thumb into the circle of new skin above Alex’s stomach like he’s taken to doing - wrinkled and a little off-color, white and pale still, no matter how much cream Alex applied as it healed - until Alex squirms, both because it’s now the closest Thomas ever comes to acknowledging _the incident_ and also because scar tissue tingles like a bitch and he can somehow feel it in weird places in his back.

When he puts it on the second time, half an hour later, Thomas’s face goes hard again, wavers for a second but then stays like that.

He doesn’t know if it’s the vest, or having Alex with him, or the promise of unfamiliar company, or something else entirely about the evening, but Alex thinks Thomas is tense right from the off. Admittedly, it works for him, bleeds out until it’s palpable in the air around him; hell, even the pretty, dark-haired, scarlet-lipped lounge singer averts her gaze, let alone the respectful nods and wide berth he gets from the majority of the people spending their Thursday evening talking crap, rubbing elbows in back rooms and pretending they’re living in the middle of the fucking _Blues Brothers._ Alex would scoff at the pretentiousness of the whole thing if he wasn’t so entertained by the way they treat Thomas, the way they speak to him, step aside for him, the way a bespectacled man in a smart black suit hastily bumps a party from their most premium table to usher Thomas over; each one of them positively deferential. 

Thomas is so enticingly aloof when he’s _on_ , though Alex thinks the people that aren’t _him_ are probably more daunted than seduced when Thomas speaks to them; holding court surrounded by New York’s shady elite. He’s Alex’s own callous, indifferent ice prince, beautiful and terrifyingly cold at the same time, haughty and entitled in the way he holds himself; all freezing, hard, unyielding steel that Alex wants to press up against and rub himself off on, just because he can.

He doesn’t, but it’s a close call.

Blaire Richards is exactly the man Alex thought he’d be; full of schmooze and faux-familial friendliness when he and his few boys meet them. Alex dislikes him on sight because he interrupts a frankly incredibly interesting conversation he and Thomas are having about telltale financial patterns in the economy that pinpoint illicit drug trafficking - Thomas is clearly trying to figure out how to make his supply less conspicuous, and Alex thinks it’s fascinating that it’s so discernible and so is happy to be a font of information for him - and also because he’s so fake it sets Alex’s teeth on edge. Alex is, by nature, blunt as fuck, and while he loves to wax lyrical with as many words as possible sometimes, those words are never used to skirt around what he’s actually intending to say, and so having to sit opposite Richards’s lanky, distinguished, overly-polished, slightly-greasy self while he gives them his best smile, all _it’s been so long, you’ve gotten so tall_ and _how’s your mother_ and _so very nice to meet you, Mr Hamilton_ is an exercise in demonstrating his respect for Thomas. 

Because he can tell, over an hour of bullshit and vague business-chat with Richards and a group of corrupt corporate douchebags in, that Thomas fucking _hates_ the guy. Alex is always completely awed by Thomas’s restraint, how he can push his temper down low and let it simmer until he’s in a position to unleash it when it will be the most effective and rewarding. It’s extraordinary to watch, considering how he, at least, knows that irritation is already bubbling up under the surface, can see it in the way he gets more and more careful with his movements, more precise and deliberate. Alex would absolutely have been done and _gone_ already, but Thomas is playing a long game here; he clearly wants to know exactly what this guy is angling get from him and what he’s prepared to do for it. Thomas likes to know and understand people before he writes them off. 

Alex, on the other hand, writes off Richards’s nephew almost the second Thomas puts a hand on the small of Alex’s back and says he _just has a few things to discuss_ , that he’ll be back soon, because the guy looks like a fucking weasel, literally, and because he spends the following ten minutes verbally jerking off over the refurbished, classic motorcycle he has parked outside and cements himself as a dipshit not ten minutes after _that_ when he leans across the table and gives Alex a once-over that he’s smart enough to have saved from Thomas’s presence but not smart enough to have kept entirely to himself, and Alex has to cough out an incredulous _fuck no_ when he asks if Alex wants to _go outside with him and see it._

“So a fancy lawyer, huh,” dipshit grins, unfazed, “You keep guys like me outta trouble then?”

Alex rolls his eyes, and then, because he looks like a walking sex crime, replies; “No, I’m pretty fucking sure I put guys like you in prison, actually.”

Even though he’s not touched anything even remotely related to Thomas in three-quarters of a year, he thinks he’d make an exception for _Dylan_. Or maybe he’ll set Angelica on the guy. She’d find something on him. 

He doesn’t think Alex is serious, that much is obvious in the way that he laughs when Alex tells him straight that he’ll regret it if he can’t keep his eyes somewhere platonic, in the way he flicks his gaze back in the direction Thomas had gone, says _yeah, yeah, sure thing_ like they’ve just had a completely different conversation, and in the way he smirks ten minutes later when he follows Alex into the bathroom, leans up against the door and straight up makes a pass at him; in the way he suggests that Alex take a ride on his goddamn bike, and then on _him_. 

He’s a fucking moron, Alex decides, because he’s had a chance and not taken the hint. He could have been forgiven, maybe the once, for not understanding that Alex is quite literally the opposite of available, he’s not from around here after all - though Alex knows Thomas would probably not be as generous - but he’s already been turned down. It’s really fucking clear then, Alex notes, that he and his uncle are out of the loop; nobody else in this club - hell, in the city - would _dare_ catch themselves alone with Alex like this, let alone to go as far to hit on him _again_ , and that’s not all due to fear of _Thomas_.

He’s a moron because he didn’t learn the first time. He’s a moron because he says _just left you all alone to your own devices, surely he doesn’t give that much of a fuck_ like he doesn’t understand that the fact that Alex isn’t shackled to Thomas like some pretty little pet - not that Alex would ever fucking allow it - is an exercise in Thomas demonstrating his own respect, not a lack of it. He’s a moron because he says _you look like you need a thrill_ , suggests Thomas clearly isn’t _meeting_ those needs, like he doesn’t understand that just imagining what Thomas is going to do to dipshit because of this is enough to flip his stomach and quicken his heartbeat and tingle his fingertips. 

He’s a moron because when Alex snorts, meets his gaze in the mirror as he washes his hands and tells him bluntly _I’d rather shove my fingers into my own eye sockets than take a ride on your piece-of-shit bike, or the tiny, useless pencil dick you’re obviously using it to compensate for, you illiterate fucking cockwaffle_ , he laughs instead of leaves. He steps right up behind Alex at the sink until he’s too close and the hairs on the back of Alex’s neck stand on end, an unpleasant prickling sensation that makes his skin crawl, right down his back and low over his right hip where his hand lands, too-small and too-pale and squeezes, proprietary and purposeful. 

Alex bends the guy’s middle finger back sharply until the sick crack it makes echoes loudly against the tiled walls and when he steps back and cradles his hand to his chest, Alex lets his body move the way Thomas taught it to, has a fist in his hair and his open switchblade at his eye before can even get through the first _what the fu-_

Alex probably should have warned him, he thinks absently, pressing the metal just a little tighter into the soft, trembling skin under his eye until it waters and drips, until a bead of blood wells there and runs down the blade. That would have been the polite thing to do; to just say _don’t touch me_ and given him a chance to back off, but he had the first chance, and he’s a moron, and Alex doesn’t like being touched, and that asshole Reynolds almost got the drop on him once and it’s never fucking happening again, and no one has ever accused him of being _polite_ , so never mind. 

Dipshit Dylan blinks and shakes like he thinks maybe Alex is going to do anything beyond freak him out a little, which he’s not, unless the guy pushes him to it. He’s struck, momentarily, with the notion of getting himself a more appropriate sample for his experiment, but he’s not got it in him right now. He’s annoyed at most, more surprised, really, than anything, because it’s been a while since anyone’s been dumb enough to touch him and he isn't anywhere close to feeling threatened. If anything he’s half hard in his slacks at the power rush he feels tingling in his fingers when dipshit says _sorry_ and _please,_ all hushed, and at the blood on his knife, and at the thrill of how angry Thomas is going to be at this motherfucker because there’s a table full of people out there that definitely just watched him follow Alex into a fucking bathroom and emerge with a broken finger and a gash in his face, and so he digs it in just a little bit harder before he lets him go. Message finally received.

He rinses the small smear of blood off of the end of his knife in the sink and doesn’t watch him leave, palms himself and hopes Thomas isn’t planning on being here much longer.

By the time he leaves, he _knows_ it won’t be long until they bounce, because Thomas is sat at the table with Richards and the few businessmen they’d been talking with before, looking stony; face dangerously neutral, probably because dipshit is sat there glaring and holding ice to his hand curled protectively in his lap and running his mouth. Thomas doesn’t look like he’s enjoying the story. He looks over Alex appraisingly as he approaches, takes in that he’s obviously fine, if a little grumpy, holds out a fresh drink to him with a raised eyebrow.

“None of the other children are going to want to play with you if you’re going to break bits of them, Alexander,” he drawls, mocking, because he doesn’t really give a fuck what Alex does.

“He _touched_ me,” Alex complains irritably, taking it and sitting tight in beside him, presses up against Thomas’s side and makes it clear he’s not talking about a handshake. Thomas’s eyes flash and he stiffens. It’s not good, for dipshit at least, and the way Richards’s face twitches says he might not be well acquainted with Thomas’s moods but he at least understands that the more still and quiet Thomas gets the more precarious his prospects of getting what he wants are. Alex doesn’t give a flying fuck. “I _objected_. Fucking _rude_ , it is, going around grabbing poor innocent bystanders in public bathrooms like a creep. Jesus. I thought these people _liked_ you.”

Thomas hums a loaded _so did I_ and Richards flicks his gaze between the two of them, placates _obviously a misunderstanding_ , trying to save the situation even as dipshit tries to cover his ass with _bullshit, your boy hit on me, wanted it he did, and then he pussied out-_

Thomas says _no he didn’t,_ flat and low without even looking at the guy before Alex can get too offended at either suggestion. He’s not sure which of them annoys him more, but he doesn’t like being called a liar, and he isn’t a fucking pussy, and the more pissed off Thomas is about this the better it will be for Alex later so he thinks _fuck it_ and pipes up _he wanted to show me his motorcycle._

Thomas goes very still and everyone else in the vicinity freezes too, like the palpable ice running through Thomas’s veins has seeped out and squeezed itself around their throats. He turns to look at Alex, fixes him a black look that makes him hum with excitement from chest to gut. Winding Thomas up is always so much fun. For him. And for Thomas. Not so much for dipshit, he supposes. Or his uncle, who’s looking at Alex in alarm like he actually thought Thomas was ever intending to end the evening giving him any fucking money, anyway. Thomas inclines his head, eyes flicking to where he’s biting his lip to keep from grinning, and he must know how hot all the tension is getting Alex.

“Run that by me again, darlin’.”

“He wanted me to go outside and see his _bike_. Offered to take me for a _ride_.” Alex blinks innocently, wrinkles his nose to convey how he’d felt about that suggestion. “Said it looked like I… _needed it_.”

He throws the gauntlet with a shrug; dipshit’s implicit disparaging of Thomas’s ability to satisfy out there for the entire table to hear. It’s not like Thomas will let that slide, even if he’d wanted to. 

And Alex is betting Thomas really doesn’t want to.

Dipshit snarls at him. “You little rat-“

“Excuse you,” Alex retorts. “Don’t you start blaming me. I said _fuck no_ , the first time, didn’t I? Didn’t listen, did you? It’s hardly _my_ fault you have the survival instinct of a fucking carrot.” 

“Don’t speak to him,” Thomas snaps out coolly, and Alex doesn’t think it’s directed at him even though he’s still got eyes on Alex, but he shuts up anyway because he’s probably been hemorrhaging braincells just looking at dipshit this evening, so it’s no loss to him to make Thomas happy if it is.

He doesn’t need to finish. Thomas is smart, knows Alex well enough to infer what happened after that and he does; unmoving and serene, face calm and voice quiet, demands he _go and wait in the car_ , but then adds _please, Alex_ when Alex opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off. So he does his boyfriend a favor and goes, because he’s twitchy and anticipatory and wants to go the fuck home already because if they stay much later he’s going to climb Thomas like a fucking tree and his restraint is shit at the best of times, let alone watching Thomas flex his power any longer. He doesn’t need to see Thomas beat the daylights out of dipshit to know it’s happened, to get hard on it, it’s enough that Thomas climbs into the car with split knuckles and bloody hands that Alex desperately wants on his body before they dry, crusty and not as fun, and Thomas must think that too, must be able to tell how strung out he is by the way his fists are clenched at his spread knees or maybe how his left leg won’t stop jittering because they’re not even halfway back to his townhouse, idling down a deserted backstreet before he snaps and barks for Monty to pull over and _get the fuck out, now_. 

Alex would try to feel bad for the poor kid, standing out in the cold - with his back to the car because he’s not an idiot - except the minute Monty shuts the door behind himself, Thomas is on the floor between his knees tugging his shirt up and his pants down and he loses all higher brain function. 

_“Where?”_ Thomas growls, eyes hard. It takes Alex a second to figure out what he’s asking because there’s some asshole’s blood getting smeared up his thighs, sue him, but he does realize eventually, pulls open the bottom few buttons of his shirt and taps the spot, just below the stupid, stupid vest, over his right hip, that still doesn’t feel _right_ for having had someone else touch it. He swears when Thomas leans in and bites him there - _fuck, fucking yes, god_ \- as he sinks his teeth in hard and deep enough to leave dark little imprints before he moves away and sinks his mouth down on Alex’s cock.

“Shit, _holy shit, Thomas_ -” Thomas hums a little around him and goes to work and Alex’s head spins as he looks down at his own hands suddenly fisted tight in Thomas’s curls. He can’t see much in the dark but he can tell Thomas’s eyes are closed, and he can imagine well enough; Thomas’s lashes long and pretty from this angle, cheekbones sharper and more pronounced, hands pinning Alex’s shaking hips down, thumb digging in to his bite mark. Thomas doesn’t do this often. Alex thinks he maybe likes to save it, knows how it undoes him completely, the elated electricity sparking deep down in his gut that he has _this_ man on his knees. He’s actually pretty certain that Thomas hasn’t done this for anyone _but_ Alex; it’s _so fucking good_ but he’s definitely no expert at it the way he is when he has his dick so deep Alex can taste it in the back of his throat, and the thought that Alex is that important, that he’s likely the only one to have ever had Thomas this way makes him dizzy and his vision blurs every fucking time he _does_ do it. 

It’s embarrassing, really, how quickly he loses it; the thrill of having dipshit _apologize_ under his knife slamming up against the euphoria of having Thomas spit-slick and mouth open for him is a heady combination and he can’t help twitch his hips under Thomas’s hands. Alex thinks his eyes maybe roll back in his skull a little when Thomas moans, sucks hard, loosens his grip, lets him move, and Alex almost wishes he hadn’t because this is going to be over the second Thomas _gags_ on him, _Jesus fucking Christ_ , but he does it anyway, thinks _fuck it_ and pulls his hair tight, fucks up into Thomas’s mouth while he runs his own; _yes, yes, yes, fuck, Thomas, ma tempête, mon seul, oh my fucking god_ , and revels in the shit that Thomas lets him do, considering there is a very fucking short list of people who are even granted the liberty of calling him by his first name without some kind of threat to their person, but there it is, and when he comes Alex feels like his own damn eyeballs are bursting as he tries to keep them open through it for every second of Thomas swallowing him down until he thinks he might actually cry.

He’s useless after, he knows; can’t do much with his limbs except slide off the seat into Thomas’s lap where he’s got a hand around his own cock and slip his own underneath so that Thomas is guiding his movements because his fried brain can’t even manage _that_ properly on his own right now. He _can_ just about manage to pitch forward and nip at Thomas’s neck, his earlobe, and he knows Thomas enough to know how to undo him completely too; whispers into his ear how dipshit had shaken, how his eye had watered like a bitch, how Alex had thought of Thomas with his hand around his switchblade, drawing blood; 

“He said _please_ ,” Alex slurs out, and Thomas groans, low and guttural, pulls his head back by his hair until he’s looking at him, and Alex grins, lazy and easy, feeling easing back into his fingers enough to start to stroke Thomas’s dick himself, though Thomas keeps his hand covering Alex’s anyway.

“You’re a fucking menace,” Thomas grunts, pulls his head back even more until he can press his mouth to Alex’s neck. Alex laughs.

“Your menace,” he cracks, humming contentedly at the pressure as Thomas sucks bruises along his skin, breathing coming in short little puffs as Alex works him slow and purposeful and hisses out _would have taken his fucking eye out if he’d not gotten the message. All yours, you know-_

“Fucking right,” Thomas rasps out, forehead pressed to Alex’s shoulder. “Should make you wear a fucking _tag_ , sew my name into all your goddamn clothes-“

“I don’t think he was interested in my _clothes_ ,” Alex smirks, and Thomas kisses him hard enough to bruise, almost a fucking headbutt. 

“You don’t stop being a wiseass, I’ll make you wear it on a collar around your neck instead,” he growls into Alex’s mouth, even though he fucking won’t. “Or brand it into you somewhere; _property of Thomas Jefferso-_ “

“Could always tattoo it, I suppose,” Alex muses, pulling back enough to shrug, and Thomas makes a strangled noise he’s never heard before. “Not _that_ , though. Something else. Maybe your signature? That shit is girly enough to look nic-“

Thomas abruptly clamps his hand down tight over Alex’s around his cock, makes him stop moving, shaking and breathing heavy. “ _Are you fucking serious?”_

“What? Yeah. it _is_. You know your signature is pretty fucking _gay_ right? I don’t suppose anyone’s ever told you, but all those prissy loops and swirls-“

“Oh my _god_ you- shut _up_. Fucking _Christ_ Alex, you can’t just-“ he presses his forehead to Alex’s and Alex can feel quick puffs of breath on his face as he huffs, tries to get himself back under control. Even in the back of a dark car on a dark backstreet Alex can see his eyes wide and black with arousal, with want, can feel his muscles trembling under Alex’s thighs spread over his lap. 

“Would you?” he asks, quiet and desperate, and Alex’s own breath catches because Thomas only ever _asks_ when he _really_ wants. “ _Will_ you?”

“Sure” Alex agrees, because he was already down for it the second the thought had bypassed his flimsy brain-to-mouth filter. “Why the fuck not.”

Thomas swears roughly and presses forward until Alex is wedged tight between the car seat and his broad chest, the hand in Alex’s hair petting instead of pulling now. There’s something sharp digging into his back and he can’t properly breathe but it’s alright, he doesn’t have room in his mouth for any air anyway because Thomas’s tongue is an insistent and destructive force as he licks inside and takes up all the space in there and groans low and rumbling in his chest as he essentially uses his vice grip on Alex’s hand to jerk himself off with, rough and fast and brutal. Alex forgets about trying to keep this brief so that Monty doesn’t freeze his balls off and _really_ wishes they kept lube in the goddamn car because now he’s had a second to think about what he’s just agreed to; needles in his flesh and forcing Thomas as deep as he will go; he sort of loves the idea. 

He tells Thomas so in between kisses, pants it out into his mouth; _yeah I will, I want to_ and _get you deep under my skin_ and _wherever you want_ and Thomas’s sudden orgasm is punctuated with a harsh _f_ _uck, Alex, you’re-_ but Alex never gets to hear what he is, just feels wet heat up his side, and it takes him a few seconds of heavy breathing to realize Thomas has deliberately come all over his own bite mark on Alex’s hip. 

“Right,” Alex snorts after a second, sardonic and amused, even though it does feel a little better now; doesn’t feel so weird anymore. “Well I think you’ve made your point.” 

Thomas scoffs a little hoarsely, like he doesn’t quite agree, thumbs over that spot gently until he’s rubbed his come over Alex’s skin. Alex thinks Thomas would probably make that point a couple hundred times over if he could. Alex isn’t complaining. 

“Can’t believe he fucking touched you,” Thomas grouses eventually, but it’s lighter, like he feels better about it too, like Alex half-straddling him on the floor of the car, smeared in his come is enough that his anger is suppressed to a simmering annoyance. He flexes his fingers like they’re a little stiff, like he’s reminding himself that he’d corrected that wrong, at least. Alex stretches, moans happily, already half-asleep, lets Thomas sort his clothes and sighs _showed him well enough, didn’t we_ and Thomas softens a little more at _we_.

Alex is content and relaxed enough to curl up in Thomas’s lap on the rest of the way home; he doesn’t want to give up the contact and he doesn’t have to, and so he doesn’t. Thomas runs his fingers down his side and along his hip, over his ass, between his thighs over and over again and it’s not difficult to figure out what he’s thinking. _You don’t have to decide on where, right-the-fuck-now, you know_ Alex smirks, snickers into his chest and gets told to _shut the fuck up_ for his trouble. 

He does wonder where Thomas will pick in the end, whether it will be hollow of one of his hips that Thomas likes to sink his thumbs into, or the back of his legs under his ass, just slightly pudgy where Thomas will cut him sometimes, sweet and sharp until he can feel his own blood dripping into the crease behind his knees, or maybe he’ll pick somewhere he thinks _Alex_ will like, the insides of his thighs that Alex likes bruised up so that he can press them together and feel Thomas on him when he’s not there. 

He doesn’t really care where, he just wants it done; he wants to know what it _feels_ like. He wants to know what Thomas’s face will look like while it’s being done, because Thomas _will_ want to watch. He wants to know if he’ll feel any different or whether it will just feel like the outside of him matches the inside; permanently changed. He wants to know whether Thomas will take to pulling out and coming all over it. He wants to know how much it will _bleed._

And to think he suspected tonight might end up _boring_.

God, Alex has all the best fucking ideas.

~~~

“So what do you think?”

“It’s garbage,” Alex says bluntly. Washington exhales heavily as he divides up the documents in the Prevost file into piles. “Any defense attorney that isn’t getting paid in chicken nuggets will suppress _this_ , and _this_ before it even comes through a jury, and without those there’s no fucking way to tie the guy to the hooker’s apartment. _This_ testimony here is tentative at best. This whole thing will just look like he’s throwing shit at the wall and seeing what sticks, and it’ll ruin his chances of going for it again later. Sack it, it’s not going anywhere.”

“That’s what I thought. I just needed an attorney’s eyes,” Wash sighs, always blinded by his own judicial need for impartiality in these things and Alex bites down on an unimpressed noise. He’d been riding his high all the way through this morning, even though he’s not done any fucking work today because his phone hasn’t stopped ringing because everyone and their mother apparently wants his time, right up until Washington had been one of those many calls, dragged him halfway across the building to look over this seven-car-pile-up of a case file submitted by Mercer’s latest protege, and he clearly didn’t even _need_ Alex to tear it apart to know the kid is currently working way below his pay grade. It’s never getting to trial. He’s sure James Monroe’s sleazy second-in-command will be pleased, at least. 

He probably shouldn’t even be looking at this file in the first place. Mercer hates him having anything to do with known organized crime cases, even ones that aren’t in any way connected to Thomas - and that’s probably a good thing, because if Alex was given free reign on Thomas’s rivals he might get a little carried away, best to leave his boyfriend’s business well alone - and Alex knows his time under the DA is tangibly finite. Whether it will be a month, a year or five, he can’t predict, but eventually he’ll run out of the grace his reputation earns him and be forced out of state prosecution. The thought doesn’t bother him; he’s been balancing the odd defense case here or there lately anyway, picking it up full time won't be a hardship. It’s actually more fun. More _challenging_ , to try and prove that powerful, rich assholes _didn’t_ do incredibly fucked up things that they _clearly definitely fucking did._

Besides, in their desperation, those powerful, rich assholes are perfectly willing to pay in more than just money for their freedom. Fucked up people know some fucked up things. And now Alex knows them too. So he’ll be fine, when it happens. Work isn't his everything, nowadays. He doesn’t feel that horrible, driving _need_ , anymore, that unrelenting, painful hunger for money, or reputation, or power, or _prestige;_ for more of _all_ of it, in the hopes that it would eventually be enough to tell him where he was meant to be, or what he was meant to be doing, or what would fill that empty, unsatisfied space in him that didn’t know what it wanted. 

He’ll be fine, because for once he knows exactly where he belongs, and that insatiable space doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all filled up with Thomas. The rest is all just pretty window dressing. Pretty window dressing that keeps him entertained, until it interrupts his morning sex glow to _ask him shit for no good reason._

He should have said _no_ , really. _No_ , or _I’m too busy right now_ or _can it wait,_ but it's been a decade and he’s still not quite sure how to say _no_ to George Washington when he asks for a favor, and besides, sometimes this shit is useful. Sometimes Wash asks for his opinion on a file that has something interesting in it, something beyond strip-club owners murdering prostitutes. Sometimes he’ll even leave the room, or take a call, or dig around in his bottom drawer for a pack of biscuits, long enough for Alex to photocopy or photograph the _really_ useful stuff.

Alex doesn’t feel great about it, but he feels even less-great about the tiny possibility of needing to blackmail someone into keeping Thomas out of jail and having nothing in his arsenal, and when he thinks about it like that, there’s not even a question. 

Sometimes he likes to think Wash knows. Sometimes he clearly doesn’t need Alex’s opinion at all. Sometimes he thinks if anyone beyond Thomas has ever understood him, it might be Washington. He doesn’t ask, of course. At least this way it’s all on Alex if it ever hits the fan. If it _is_ on purpose, that’s the least he can do.

So Alex nods and says _anytime_ and takes lunch with the man while he’s over that side of the building, because he offers to buy Alex a coffee that was made by an actual barista, and then carries on spending the rest of his day being interrupted. By Mercer. By Angelica. By _Burr_ , who doesn’t typically make an effort to come visit Alex when he’s around, because it’s awkward as fuck trying to keep the line unblurred but he makes an exception just because it's turning out to be one of those days. By _Phillip Schuyler_ , which at least puts him back in a good mood, because he wants to pay Alex to help make his latest assault charge go away and Alex smirks all the way through _that_ conversation because it’s fucking hilarious considering Angelica’s just spent the entirety of their coffee stop looking at him like he’s sleeping with Hades or the literal fucking devil. She looks at him so obviously, judgmentally disappointed, now, that she may as well start calling him _Persephone_ and the irony of her flimsy glass castle tickles him enough that he grins the rest of the afternoon. 

Right up until the next call he gets, because it’s Madison, which is rare enough most days, let alone when he knows damn well Alex is at work, because he likes to pretend Alex doesn’t actually have a real job rather than try to comprehend the thin line Alex walks. It’s so unusual that Alex already answers feeling a little like his stomach is a washing machine, even before Madison asks if he’s heard from Thomas today, because he’s four hours late for a meeting and not picking up his phone and that just _doesn’t fucking happen_. 

Alex answers him, gouges little fingernail-shaped grooves in the arm of his chair as he counts to ten, because _no_ , he hasn’t, then grabs his shit and leaves early.

He’s not done any fucking work today, anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> ma tempête, mon seul / my storm, my only  
> ~  
> Y'all, the majority of the smut is set in Alex!POV, ‘cause he’s an uncivilised, feral little shit that focuses on that. Thomas is all about the romance. Alex is all about the D.  
> 


	2. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise? I've sort of had a Saturday thing going on, but this was done early so I made like Alex and thought _fuck it_.

James won’t admit it for the sake of his stoicism, but he loves Friday mornings. On Fridays James’s loose schedule of _visiting_ the least savory members of their organisation - the ones Thomas refuses to have dirtying up his nice house - and collecting their profits takes him halfway across the city, doing his rounds in the rougher parts of town, which anyone would think would be the shittiest day of his week. It would be, except once he’s finished for the morning he never fails to swing by the coffee house around the corner and down the block from the last dealer on his list; a little bit because they do the best pastries on the east coast, and a little because of the kind-faced barista with dark hair, dark eyes and a smile like summer sun that gives him interesting book recommendations and who is far too good to be schlepping coffee to snotty hipsters, yoga moms and harried business men. 

In James’s humble opinion, of course.

She brightens when the bell dings his entrance, looks up automatic and expectant, and this is a regular enough thing now that she’s already slid a book out from under the counter to exchange with him by the time he gets close enough to say _I’m not inclined to take any more from you if they’re all going to be that terrible_ , and it’s worth his discomfort to be that honest for her throaty laugh.

“It’s different,” she smiles, runs a hand over the cover of the one in her hand like these things are precious to her. “Not for everyone.”

“It’s unrewarding-” he denies, “-and unsatisfying to be outside of the action and not understanding what’s happening.”

“That’s the whole point,” her eyes light up as they exchange. “It’s like life. You end up accepting that you never really know what’s happening inside someone else’s story. That you're not meant to know. That's my hot take, anyway.”

James gripes _I get that enough already, I don’t need it in my fiction, I'm too damn nosy_ and when she sighs and good-naturedly calls him _closed-minded_ he shakes his head and tries his best to ignore the fresh bruise just visible under the cuff of her sweater as she rings up his usual order.

If she’s too good for schlepping coffee, she’s lightyears above dancing in a seedy, backstreet stripclub, and he might not know what’s happening inside her story, but he knows she works two jobs and that’s one of them. 

He doesn’t go down there; if he wants an evening of seductive, almost-naked flesh or to outright pay for his fucks it’s not like he’d go to something under _Monroe’s_ banner, not when Carter has something a hell of a lot classier, but it’s his job to know everything about this city and the people running it and so he knows the club anyway. He knows how she’s a shining beacon in that filth, how she manages to dance like she’s above every person in the room, even without her clothes, knows that’s what makes her so appealing to the clientele and keeps them coming back. He knows she’s not for sale afterward, either, knows Prevost would make a hell of a lot more money if she were because she glows, class and charm somehow untarnished, even coated in sleaze and there are people who would pay highly to try and rob her of that dignity. 

What he _doesn’t_ know is whether she owes the douchebag money, or whether he has something on her that keeps her under his thumb or whether it’s something else entirely, and he doesn’t think she’d _want_ him to know, or get involved, either. Thomas offered to, once, last month, when he’d curiously asked why James had suddenly taken up speed-reading and James makes it a point not to lie to Thomas because he hates that. James might be the man's best friend and he knows Thomas loves him, but he still finds it prudent to never do things Thomas hates. Lying to him is top of that list. 

_Was_ top of that list. It might be second, now. He still doesn’t want to find out.

So he’d answered honestly and Thomas had gone away and thought about it, because that was what Thomas did, and then eventually offered to take out Prevost, because they had enough shit on Monroe to avoid an all-out war over it. James had almost agreed, because the fact that Thomas had even _offered_ was a testament to the power of _love_. He’s certain Thomas’s affection for him would absolutely not have extended to include people James might potentially care for _before_ Hamilton came along, and wasn’t that the kicker, because it was _Thomas’s_ _fault_ he’d even noticed and spoken to her in the first place, because their relationship inspires and terrifies him in equal measure, and not just because they’re both scary bastards. 

He still doesn’t really understand it, it just _is_. They just _are_ , and there’s no question about it, now. Now he’s seen inside it he can see how it engrosses them both; they’re living completely in their own little world, their own story that James can only barely manage to follow on a good day.

He's always thought they were burning, and he's only been proven right. It's fire that burns between them; hungry and intense and consuming them, devouring them both whole until there’s nothing it hasn’t touched, leaving everything irrevocably changed and warped.

There’s no way to separate or distinguish spark from fuel once the fire is ablaze, where one ends and the other begins, and if it’s doused, neither is going to be identifiable afterward as anything remotely recognizable. 

And yet James has never seen Thomas happier; even as children Thomas was seldom easy-going, tending towards being a stubborn, arrogant little prick who’s father’s death turned him into a serious and ruthless man far too soon, but while he’s still every inch the hardass when it comes to respect and work ethic and discipline, James can’t deny that they’re all benefiting from the fact that he’s far more inclined to smile. 

There’s an irrefutable peace in Thomas since Alexander that James desperately envies, that’s had him ruminating mournfully on his own love life of late. Not that he wants exactly what they have. He’s perfectly happy in the world he’s living in. Someone has to pay attention to those two idiots to make sure they don’t run themselves off a cliff, because it clearly won’t be _them_. That overwhelming single-minded, obsessive focus is not for him. He doesn’t want to be _consumed_.

Then again, he supposes he wouldn’t be. James isn’t gunpowder, and he isn’t flame. He isn’t Thomas or Alexander. He doesn’t think he was made to _burn_. James feels more like earth; dirty and gritty and dark with bodies and blood and secrets buried deep in his soil and that’s part of the problem; why he’d said no to Thomas’s offer.

He thinks she’s probably a proud woman; the way she holds her head high and makes calm but unwavering eye contact. She’d not appreciate his riding in like a knight on a white horse when he’s nothing of the sort and doesn’t have a castle to offer her that isn’t made of blood and violence and dirty money and all the things she’d be trying to get away from, trading one crime ring for another, and if she’s too good for schlepping coffee and stripping, she’s too good for _him_. 

Occasionally, James does almost ask her out for coffee anyway - except not coffee, because she’s probably sick of coffee, and Alexander Hamilton’s little demon face has ruined coffee for him - so maybe dinner, before he remembers how she’s got her own shit going on, plenty enough to be dealing with - especially now, with new bruises dark on her wrist - without involving her, unwillingly and ignorantly, in James’s story too, because how would he even _start_ that conversation.

But sometimes, on days like today, when there’s an extra pastry slipped in his bag, when her eyes twinkle, when he eventually leaves and looks down and sees the book she’s given him this time is a battered copy of _Gangs of New York_ , he thinks she might just want him to ask, too. 

  
~~~

So he’s in a good mood that morning. He’s in a good mood when he gets back to the house and it’s peaceful and quiet for once. He’s in a good mood when he settles in the den with a pastry and the book without anyone bothering him, wanting to know whether Alexander had been around the house recently; whether Thomas was smiling today. 

It’s maybe precisely _because_ he’s in such a good mood that the gut-churning anxiousness hits him with such force three hours later, when he’s sat surrounded by Thomas’s main men for a meeting that Thomas had demanded be arranged last week but doesn’t look like he’s going to show up to. It hits with a hefty side serving of guilt, too, because he’s been waiting, on edge and ready - ever since someone took a pop at his best friend - for the other shoe to drop. He’s been tense and antsy and just _expecting_ shit to hit the fan for two months, cautious and over careful and he can’t help but feel like something has happened and it’s his fault for not noticing, because he’d finally let himself relax a little bit. Taken his eye off the ball. It’s not his _job_ to relax. It's his _job_ not to lose the fucking ball. It’s his _job_ to have Thomas’s back and _where the fuck is he._

He can’t show any of this, of course, as the table grows restless and and uneasy; can’t show that he’s panicking, because he knows it’s irrational and Thomas can absolutely handle himself. There’s no reason to panic, at least not yet, and even if there _is_ it will do more harm than good for James to visibly fret, so he keeps his face impassive and patient, shrugs, cracks out his book and pretends to stare at it. While he goes ahead and panics anyway. 

He has to keep remembering to turn the pages for show, even though he’s not reading a word, and it’s at least a reassuring sign that while there’s muttering from Jeffrey, and Carter fidgets, and the table is tense, no one outright questions. Thomas is the fucking boss. It’s Thomas’s prerogative to turn up to meetings whenever he damn well likes, or not at all. 

It’s just _unprecedented._ And it’s making them all nervous. 

The clock ticks. In his periphery James can see Wilkinson picking at his cuticle, and from the way Fredericks is breathing sat next to him, he might be meditating. James hopes so, because he’s surely not dumb enough to be caught napping if Thomas walks in here any second. Which he unfortunately doesn’t, and this goes on for so fucking long that James almost breaks, almost pulls out his phone and at least shoots off a text, but he knows they’re all watching him, taking cues from him, and so if it looks like James thinks there’s a problem, they’ll believe there’s a problem.

Somewhere out in the hall, a floorboard creaks as one of the staff walks by.

It’s all about reputation, their line of work. Reputation and intimidation. Thomas has to be invincible and powerful and unbreakable and if he seems like he isn’t, he’s weak and vulnerable and not worth obeying and everything begins to crumble. It’s one of the main reasons James had been so concerned about the Hamilton situation, aside from him being a complete asshole, until he’d turned out to be more of an asset to Thomas’s ability to intimidate rather than a liability. Most of the time. 

If there _is_ a problem it’s not like James can do anything about it to help from where he is right now. 

If there _is_ a problem, the last thing Thomas needs right now is for everyone to fucking _know_ there is. _That’s_ what James can do to help. 

When it’s been long enough to start getting really pointed, James tries for conversation; drives it into the territory of Monroe, and King and David; talking shit about their rivals and enemies is both a surefire topic for hours of conversation and also reminds them of their allegiance to Thomas in his absence and it’s successful for an hour or so until someone James really wishes he was able to pinpoint says _wonder which one of them is keeping the boss_ and the floodgates open;

“Do we actually think it’s one of _them_ that’s-”

“Well it ‘aint King, is it, fucker’s dead as-”

“There was that thing with Monroe the other month-”

“Gotta be something serious for him-”

“Never like _this_ is he-”

“Any way he could be-”

“ _Enough_ ,” James snaps.

It works for a blessed second. The lot of them are silenced and chagrined, but in the end he’s the right-hand and not the boss. They’re too curious, too suspicious and so when he decides it’s maybe time to get them the fuck out of the house so they don’t find out how bad it is - if it _is_ bad - and tries to dismiss them, they don’t listen. Wilkinson pipes up _what if he needs us, we should stick around_ and James can believe it’s come from a good place, at least from him because he’s always been reliable, but he knows damn well that some of the other agreeing, assenting voices just mask a desire to hang back in case there’s about to be a massive shift in power in this city that they can use to their own advantages. They don’t want to miss out on that. Vultures. Still, he’s stuck with them all for the time being, ends up sitting back and calling for the cooks to bring in dinner and plying them with wine and cigars and playing unwilling host in Thomas’s house and just hoping everything’s alright even though they all know this is fucking weird. 

Thomas is ordered. Thomas is controlled. Thomas is precise. Thomas is _not_ four hours late to his own meetings, unless he’s in the fucking police station - which he is not. James would have heard that by now. Something’s come up to keep him from coming home and they all know it. The best James can do now is pretend he’s not at all concerned about it.

Shit happens. No big deal.

Except less than two months ago someone _shot_ at his friend and while the culprit is safely underwater, James hasn’t yet shaken the over cautious need to know Thomas is safe.

It’s a relief when his phone rings, even though it’s not Thomas, because it means he has an excuse to calmly, slowly step out to the back room and then pace like a motherfucker and have a small panic attack in private. Thomas doesn’t answer when he calls, or reply when he texts, and neither does his driver, and it’s been long enough now that he caves to his anxiety and calls Hamilton, just in case, because the guy may be meant to be at work, but James is pretty sure those two could go for hours on a sinking ship before they realized they were halfway to drowning. It’s not an impossibility that Thomas is with him and they’ve gotten _distracted_. Not an impossibility, but also not the case, though he feels dismally justified in his concern when Alexander sounds confused and thrown off and snaps out _I’ll be there in half an hour_ , even though James didn’t actually invite him to get involved and yet he’s painfully relieved instead of annoyed.

Alexander Hamilton is still a pain in James’s ass. He’s irritating, smart-mouthed, fucking creepy, and enjoys pissing people off for his own amusement. Mostly James. He likes to piss James off for fun and watch his fingers twitch knowing he won’t lay a hand on him, the smug little shit. 

James doesn’t trust him to think before he speaks. He doesn’t trust him not to do whatever stupid shit takes his fancy just because he’s _bored_. He doesn’t trust Alexander to have any kind of self-preservation instinct at all, actually, and you’d think a bullet would have changed that, you’d think that instinct would be excessive and heightened, but if Thomas is trying to act like it never happened then Alexander is acting like it’s _no big fucking deal at all_ , with a careless shrug and a dismissive gesture like he just stubbed his toe instead of nearly died. James thinks Hamilton might be a little psychotic. James and Thomas aren’t even the ones that got shot and yet they’re showing more signs of being affected by the entire ordeal than the guy that actually did, and so he doesn’t even really trust Alexander not to go off the deep end and murder an entire street of people if he snaps hard enough, because who knows what he’s capable of. 

But James does trust him with Thomas. He can’t not; not when he still sees that little red light sometimes when he looks at his best friend in the wrong light and remembers that Alexander didn't even hesitate, and he knows that if Hamilton ever did lose his shit and take out half a city block that it would be for Thomas. James can’t help but respect that, even if it sort of terrifies him. Thomas; the importance of his safety and wellbeing, is the one thing he trusts Alexander to agree with him on.

He trusts the guy to have Thomas’s back. And he desperately needs some of that in this house right now. He needs to feel like he’s not alone. 

But by the time Hamilton arrives - slams in looking fierce and flinty and more severe for the fact that he’s still in a suit and not his normal jeans and scraggy t-shirt - and demands to know what the fuck is going on, James has already had news he can’t hide, a tip off; one of their cars impounded after being railed and run off the road, mercifully completely clean and empty when it was found, which at least means Thomas got up and left with whichever stupid sonofabitch did this of his own damn volition and James starts to calm a little now he knows what he’s dealing with.

He has to balance shouting down a fucking free-for-all of the guys protesting _what the fuck_ and _in the middle of the afternoon_ and _what are you going to do_ with trying to lay all this information out for Alexander without him losing his shit, the lawyer pacing up and down the room as James speaks, clearly not doing a great job, because he starts shaking with the same angry tension James is feeling but not showing. His knife twitches and flicks in his hand repetitively like a tic he can’t or won’t control until Boothe throws in _we need to think about contingency plans just in case-_ and Alexander has the blade pointed steadily across the room in his direction without even looking or stopping moving. _Finish that fucking sentence asswipe and see what happens_ he warns, still pacing, hostility emanating from him so thickly it almost twists and blurs the air around him like he’s actually burning. 

James tries not to resent the fact that Alexander has more success in quieting the rabble; most of the room exchanging nervous glances at each other and shutting their mouths, though James can’t tell if the ones that don’t are blind to the furious energy bubbling under his skin or whether they just think that he won’t follow through. Memories are short in their line of work; there’s a reason Thomas doesn’t ever show a lick of leniency when someone fucks up. It can easily outweigh the threat, with enough time. Maybe that’s the reason they don’t all take him seriously, why some pick up on Boothe’s suggestion and start to consider it;

“Who even knows what’s-”

“Should lay low in case-”

“Could be selling us out-”

“Could be _dead_ -”

By the time James reaches him, Alexander has already snarled and thrown himself bodily over the table to bury his switchblade in Jeffrey’s gut while the guy makes this awful yelping noise and chokes on his breath, shaking in shock. Hamilton yells when James hauls him off before he can yank the knife viciously to the left like he’s obviously about to, kicks and writhes and bellows _fucking let me go, say that again motherfucker I fucking dare you, I’m gonna choke you with your own goddamn intestines you piece of shit, fucking let me go-_

James drags him towards the back room gripped tight around his waist because he thinks if he tries to take him by the arms Alexander might just wrench hard enough to break his own fucking bones and that’s the last thing they need right now. He glares at Jeffrey around Alexander’s pointy little elbows and the bloody blade in his hand aiming for his face and snaps _do something about that prick_ , _would you_ at Wilkinson and Carter as he goes, leaves it up to interpretation whether he means to help him or put him down, hopes they all squabble about it for long enough that he can come back before they implode without him there to be a voice of reason.

Alexander doesn’t stop even when he can’t see Jeffrey anymore. He’s still cussing James out, calls him all the names under the sun as he tries to get free and finish what he’s started and James swears into the bony curve of his shoulder blade and tries to shake him, hisses out _you need to calm the fuck down_ and _Alexander please_ and _this isn’t going to help Thomas_ and he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of that one first because it works so quickly he almost thinks Alexander has had some kind of aneurysm instead, the way he makes a noise like a wounded animal and almost seizes, gulping in great mouthfuls of air as he at least _tries_ to calm, but sounds more like he’s choking. James appreciates the obvious effort it takes as he curls in on himself when James lets him go, bends at the waist and screams into his knees for so long that his chest is heaving with exertion, until he can look up at James with an accusing glare. 

“Where _is_ he? How the fuck do you _not know_ ,” he hisses, sounding pained and James feels a little bit like he’s being scolded by a parent who’s child he’d lost while he was babysitting, careless and inept like Thomas has wandered off in the park while James was looking the other way.

It’s not like he’s wrong; James _should_ know where he is. He knows where Thomas _was_. Thomas _was_ running errands; had gotten up late that morning before James had left, grinning and relaxed and mercifully not told him what had made him so happy, because he’d heard too much of Thomas making _Hamilton_ happy the night before when they’d gotten home to want to hear any more. Thomas _should_ have been to drop cash off with John Adams just after lunch, met with the interior designer decorating his new casino in the afternoon and then swung by to get fitted for a new suit on his way home. Where he’d ended up afterward instead, James has no fucking clue. 

Alexander frowns, disappointed when he tells him this, says _I thought you might have had a tracker on him_ and James flinches like he’s been slapped, because he can tell Hamilton doesn’t even mean it as dig, just an observation and it stings more for that fact. He feels like he’s failed at his job, because Thomas’s physical safety _is_ undoubtedly his job, the two of them are in complete agreement there, and James feels fucking incompetent. 

He doesn’t say _I wouldn’t_ or _I’ve never even thought about it_ because they’re both lies and Hamilton is enough of an asshole to call him out on it just for a reason to fight, so he ends up with an honest, dejected _I bought one but he’d never have let me_ instead, and he’s more grateful for the solidarity than he would have expected when Hamilton presses his fingers into his own eyes and groans, spitting _well he fucking will now, whether he likes it or not, for fuck’s sake, I can’t deal with this bullshit, I don't even-_

“Why?” Alexander bursts out, cuts himself off, sounding frustrated. “Why would someone even _do_ that. What’s the fucking _point?_ ”

“Intimidation tactic,” James says without hesitation. It’s _always_ about intimidation. Side-along someone until they lose control, force them off into a ditch, rely on the shock and trauma to intimidate your victim into compliance. Far easier to extort what you need, whether that be information or agreements or money, when your target is a scared, shaken mess.

It’s a threatening and coercive strategy they’ve employed plenty of times themselves. It’s not even the first time someone’s tried it on _Thomas_ , by far, though when James points this out to Alexander he gets such a filthy, horrified look he refrains from specifying exactly _how_ many times Thomas has been run off the road and tries to talk them both down, instead.

Thomas has dealt with shit like this before. He’d willingly gone with whoever ran him down, either to take them out when their back was turned, or to find out and agree to what they wanted and then go back later to eviscerate them when he was more prepared.

Hell, if this had happened even three months ago, James would be a damn sight less concerned. Except it’s happened _now_ , and James is still _painfully_ aware of Thomas’s mortality, and it’s not until Alexander looks at James with barely contained panic in his own expression, mirroring the anxiety that has been churning James's gut all evening too, that it’s clear that he’s not unaffected by _the incident_ at all. There’s a heightened self-preservation instinct there, alright. It’s just not his own self that he’s excessively interested in preserving. It’s not been lost on him either that the target wasn’t _him_. 

_Well, at least he’s not psychotic after all_ , James thinks. 

Hopefully.

 _This kind of shit hasn’t happened in years_ , James tries to pacify him, because it hasn’t. It had become very clear very quickly to all that might consider it that it was a useless tactic. Thomas didn’t _get_ intimidated. He just got revenge. It’s what’s bewildering about the whole thing, James tells Alexander, frowning. _There surely isn’t a person in the city that would dare think they’d get away with it-_

James realizes who’s probably responsible at the same time Alexander viciously spits _that motherfucker_ and confirms it for him as his knuckles go white where he’s still gripping the knife. _That fucking slimy, money-grubbing, self-serving piece of shit, I’m going to fucking ruin him, je vais le déchirer jusqu'à ce qu'il souhaite qu'il soit mort-_ he inhales sharply, balls his hands into fists as James curses and asks _are you sure_ but it makes complete fucking sense.

“Do you have an address?” Alexander asks through clenched teeth, and of course James does. James knows everything there is to know about Blaire goddamn Richards. He wasn’t about to let Thomas go meet the guy without digging up everything he could. James knows about the divorce lawyer breathing down his neck and the soon-to-be-ex-wife taking him for all he’s worth. Knows about the bankruptcy that he’s trying to hide from all his business associates back home. Knows about the fifth house of his on the edge of the city that he’s been trying and failing to get rid of for too long now, hurrying before his wife’s solicitors get their hands on it and how he’s _technically_ in town to meet with a new Realtor about how to get it sold when he’d _suddenly_ remembered that Thomas existed, lived in New York, was totally loaded, and had once been his best friend’s kid. 

James hesitates for a mere fraction of a second, not wanting to do Thomas’s reputation dirty by having it look like he needs the help, but he rations that it’s been made clear enough times to whoever is paying attention that picking a fight with one of these two is picking a fight with both. They’re a _they._ Alexander is probably the only one who _could_ go and get him without it looking like Thomas _needs_ the help, because of course he'd be there, and at this point James is just desperate for at least one of them to lay eyes on him. 

Besides, he wouldn’t dare tell Alexander _no_. He doesn’t even want to. He _wants_ to send Alexander over there as soon as he fucking can, and so he does.

He’s not about to get in between them. He’s learned that lesson by now. 

~~~

James throws himself into holding down the fort; he’s marginally disappointed that the general consensus had been to patch Jeffrey up and run him to a backstreet doctor that they know will keep his mouth shut for enough money. Judging by some of the more stony, unimpressed, unsympathetic looks the short, squat man is on the receiving end of as he hisses and winces, James is not the only one. James counts those looks, tries to categorize them into who’d lost the argument, who’s loyalty was proudly on show. 

On the other hand; who goes for the throat the second there’s even the hint of blood. 

Who can’t be trusted. 

This is how he can help. _I’ll deal with Thomas_ , Alexander had said, _those assholes are your fuckin problem_. This is what Thomas would want him to be doing with this time; making the best of it. Using this to their advantage. He starts to compile mental log of names, feels like a fucked up Father Christmas trying to decide who belongs on the naughty or nice list.

Boothe, who grumbles and curses under his breath about Alexander as he uselessly tries to dab his friend’s blood from his shirt.

Fredericks, who offers to go with Jeffrey _too_ easily, too eager to jump in a cab and start seeding some dissent.

Wilkinson, whom James sends with the man instead, who almost drags the guy out by the hair, firm faced and glaring and ready to give him a _pep talk_ on how he’s no longer welcome at the townhouse. For his own safety.

Niels, who James sends to go and get the fucking car out of impound before anybody takes a serious interest in it and who almost runs in his effort to follow through, though whether that's just an excuse to get the fuck out, James doesn't know.

Monty, who’d been walking around with a face full of guilt all evening like he thought this wouldn’t have happened if _he’d_ been driving, who Alexander didn’t think of after until he was halfway down the stairs, stopping abruptly until James had almost run into his back. _Besides, he’s gonna need a ride home -wait, did he have Monty with him_ Hamilton had said, frowning, like he hadn’t realised that Monty wasn’t really _Thomas’s_ driver anymore, that the teenager basically followed him around like a puppy; another person who hadn’t quite shaken that day from their system yet. James isn’t actually sure why the fuck Monty even still works for them, considering Thomas is convinced the kid’s harboring a crush on Hamilton, and James wouldn’t think Thomas would have let that shit slide whether he was right or not, let alone encourage it by assigning him to be his boyfriend’s personal taxi, but James learned a while ago now that Thomas has a reason for everything, that James’s opinion on his relationship is neither needed nor wanted and that, most importantly, it was _none of his fucking business_. 

Fletcher, who, after Alexander has safely left starts to raise the subject of contingency plans again; _do we need to lay low, or even go off grid for a while, if something’s happened-_

Parker, who kicks him under the table with no small amount of venom and hisses _nothing’s fucking happened, shut the fuck up._

It goes on, and so do James’s lists, and with each name he notes he feels like he’s a little more of use in this situation, and actually, he’s relieved by the number of names continually getting added to the _loyal_ list. Wilkinson, Monty, Parker, Carter, Edwards, Cole -and weirdly enough, _Charles fucking Lee_ , who calls James up while he’s sending one of Thomas’s staff out for takeout - because no one ate fucking dinner and Thomas will be hungry and likely pissed off when he eventually gets home - and says _someone told my father the boss is missing and Hamilton has gone out to find him, do you need me to do anything?_

James is so busy trying to figure out which one of the pricks on the shit-list is already calling around trying to stir up trouble that he just says _what the fuck_ , and then _he's not fucking missing_ and Charles hisses _well I want that fucking psycho to know what side I was on when they get back_ , _alright_ and it’s clear he’s not talking about Thomas. James blinks and eventually asks him to just keep his idiotic father in line, hold tight until they hear from Thomas and gets a huffed _my father’s a fucking moron, I’ll handle it_ and James hangs up bewildered, wondering if Alexander would be pleased or pissed off to know he’s apparently scared some balls into the kid and laments he’ll never know the answer because despite what he assured Charles, he’s never going to fucking _tell_ Alex this; that asshole really doesn’t need that kind of ego boost.

Forty-five minutes after he left, Alexander texts him _all fine_ and James finally releases the breath he’s been holding since three that afternoon, pours himself a scotch.

Two hours after that, Thomas strolls into the mostly-empty dining room, nonchalant and completely respectable, save for the suspect dark stain up his jacket, nary a care in the world for James's poor, frayed nerves. It's only the fact that he knows it's for show, and the fact that Alexander follows him in, relaxed and a world away from how he’d been not three hours ago and rolls his eyes, mock exasperated, at James from behind Thomas's back, that stops him throwing something when Thomas cocks his head, frowns and says _oh, did I miss something? There better be food._

James really needs a fucking vacation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Je vais le déchirer jusqu'à ce qu'il souhaite qu'il soit mort / I'm gonna tear him apart 'til he wishes he was dead
> 
> GUYS. JAMES WORRIES FAR TOO MUCH.
> 
> Yes, yes I know this was literally an entire segment in which nothing happens. Sorry? Hope you can see what I was going for with that. This may be a three-pronged approach to a story about one weekend, but I didn’t say it was an exciting weekend. Ha. This is not a complicated plot. Hopefully. They allllll dealing with this post-shooting shit. James more than most.


	3. Thomas

At the first, purposeful, bumping scrape of metal-on-metal, Thomas knows it’s going to be a long day. He’s got his head between his knees, bracing against the seat few seconds later, though it’s not as rough as he’d expected at the initial contact; they veer and spin a few times as Johnson tries to pull back and swerve away, until Thomas is thrown into the door as they’re driven into the barrier, grinding along like particularly intense patch of turbulence with a high, painful screeching noise before it abruptly ends and the car hits a grass verge and goes nose down in a ditch with a groan and a crash. 

Fucking great. 

He’s fine. Well, no, he’s furious, sheer, unadulterated outrage coursing through him, but he digs his nails into his palms and shoves that deep, deep down to deal with later. Now isn’t the time for that. Now is the time for paying attention and being smart. He’s fine. His shoulder’s twinging and sore and his jaw aches from clenching it, but he’s fine and it’s the first mistake whoever these fucks are have made; don’t half-ass a job like this. It’s not the softest run-down he’s ever had, but it’s up there, too overly-cautious and likely someone’s been told to make _sure_ he can walk away. Whoever’s behind this is too desperate for whatever it is they want from him to risk messing him up too bad to be able to give it. 

Mistake number two; there should never be only one avenue to getting what you want. It leaves you without options and therefore, importantly; without control.

Their third mistake is assuming that he gives more than a passing fuck about his driver. Which they do, because once Thomas has removed himself from the sputtering car and stretched his arms out, deliberately sauntered over to where two guys he recognizes from the night before are leaned up against a too-conspicuous black car and slid himself into the back without acknowledging either of them, they bundle Johnson into the trunk and take a circuitous route out somewhere rough. Rough enough that no one will bat an eye at the sound of the gunshot when they put a bag over the guy’s head and a bullet in the back of his neck like Thomas is meant to take something away from it beside the fact that they needed to cover him up to be able to do it so they didn’t have to see his tears; gutless weaklings. 

He spares a second to be absently glad it wasn’t Monty driving; Alex likes the kid, his boyfriend might have been a little upset about it if it were him on his knees in the dirt. Thomas hasn’t really seen Alexander _sad_ , but he’s self-aware enough to suspect he wouldn’t enjoy it. Besides, Monty’s serving a purpose right now, it would have been annoying to have lost him needlessly. 

Alex had outright refused the notion of a bodyguard when Thomas had tried to suggest it, while his boyfriend was still wrapped up in bandages and Thomas’s guts were still twisting themselves into guilty knots that he couldn’t think of another way to ease. It had been a nasty fight that he hadn’t won, because Thomas always lost when Alex really wanted to win, and it had scraped his nerves raw letting Alex out of his fucking sight afterward, until two weeks later he’d happened to see Monty intercept James on a mission to rant at Alex about something as soon as they’d gotten into the house, eyes all concerned and soft because Alex was wincing and clearly ready to sleep. Thomas had abruptly realized the incredibly elegant little solution to his problem, because Monty’s too good of a kid, really; Thomas knows damn well he’d never act on the way he looks at Alex, if he’s even aware of it, which Thomas isn’t certain he is. But he _would_ act if Alex was in danger, and so Thomas can live with the slight chafe of having someone _want_ Alex, because there’s no threat there, and because Alex is walking around with a built-in, accidental bodyguard following him around the majority of the time without even knowing it. Thomas will suffer Alex's sadness over harm coming to Monty, if it happens in the line of keeping Alex safe.

It does mean Thomas is in the market for a new driver now, though, with Johnson out of the picture, and he runs through the other options in his head while his chaperones toss the guy in a dumpster that Thomas is maybe going to have to have someone fish him out of later, lest he be linked back to them when he’s found. 

Sloppy work. 

It’s all a big performance, really, and too much of one; choreographed to make him feel like he’s in danger except it tells him the opposite. He knows he’s not, because they’re too careful with him, because they ran him down too fucking softly, because they drive around for miles before they actually deliver him to where he already knows he’s going, because they put a bullet in his driver and not in his leg or his gut like they would do if they had some balls. The more effort they put into the show-and-dance the more confident he is, because it’s a desperation play that they’re too desperate to commit to fully, just in case they go too far. They need him intimidated and scared, but not enough that he loses his shit, goes full fight-or-flight, and neither of those things is going to happen, but _they_ don’t know that, and so they’re being too cautious. 

See mistake two again. They need something from him. Thus, Thomas has the control. All the smoke-and-mirrors they like won’t change that fact, as much as they’re trying.

They leave him sat out in the car for hours, one of his chaperones in the front seat, eyes on Thomas, hand settled unsubtly on his gun so ridiculously that Thomas can’t take it seriously, and he _could_ make the best of it and try for a fight now, except he doesn’t think he’s in any danger and he doesn’t like too much unnecessary risk, and he has no idea where Blaire, his handsy cunt of a nephew or the other guy is, and so he lets it play out and sits there. 

It’s not necessarily a _mistake_ on their part - unless you consider that he has plenty of time to speculate and think over the situation until he’s perfectly comfortable and prepared - but it is pointless, the whole thing again designed to impress the point that _he’s_ subject to _their_ schedule and not the other way around. Thomas refrains from rolling his eyes and thinks about kicking his feet up, stretching out in the backseat, deliberately displaying his boredom and disinterest in this entire scene and cutting it short and hostile, calling the bluff, but decides that he wants them to believe they’re succeeding. He’s not above waiting it out for an easy opportunity, rather than having to actually put effort into fighting his way out of this. This shit isn’t _worth_ his effort. It’ll be easier to make his move when they’re not looking if they think he’s cowed and shaken, which is a truly ridiculous notion but they clearly think he _can_ be cowed, so why not use that stupidity against them.

It’s not like they’ll be alive for much longer to tell anyone else he played dead for a minute to get the upper hand.

It’s the same logic he uses when Blaire eventually strolls out of the house smiling like Thomas is supposed to be surprised, or grateful, full of mock chagrin at his terrible hosting, all _I didn’t realize you’d arrived_ and _my apologies, kiddo_ and _let’s have a drink shall we_ and wanders back inside without waiting for an answer, the pompous power play grating along Thomas’s nerves before he bats it away. Admittedly, he’d been planning to deal with this situation at some point this weekend and while it’s not how he’d been expecting to, he can be flexible, so he takes the opening, notes exactly where his knife is inside his jacket in case he needs it, and follows him into the house. He can see why it’s struggling to sell; it’s seen better years, a little overgrown outside and a lot neglected inside, down a long, too-private dirt road that most would find easy-to-miss, all boxes and bare floorboards and dust sheets, and the fact that he and his boys are staying here while they’re in town tells Thomas exactly how keenly they’re feeling that bankruptcy, even as Blaire tells him _how much demand there is for these kinds of places right now._

As he follows Blaire into a dining room, protective sheets piled haphazardly in one corner, chaperone one continues to an adjoining room and he hears the sounds of running water, a chair being pulled out, the other voice from the car drifting through the door when it opens. Fourth mistake. He strongly suspects that Blaire only _has_ those two guys that ran him down, because they’re the same two goons that came to the bar with him last night and so far he’s been so desperate to pull out all the stops to shake Thomas up that he surely would have kept him guessing, had him driven around by strangers he didn’t recognize if he’d had that option at his disposal. 

His caution almost always pays off, because knowledge is power, and so when Blaire offers him the final piece of the puzzle without even having to work for it; that his nephew is overnight in a clinic in the inner-city, getting the bones in his wrist re-set, it’s sweet victory at having the full picture that thrums through him as well as the vindictive satisfaction at the injury. Blaire’s got nothing here but two guys next door in a kitchen - clearly paying not-enough attention because he can hear their murmured chatting - and a smug smile in place, sat here _alone_ with him, another intimidation tactic, because he thinks he can successfully spook Thomas with a little run-in, a dead driver and an afternoon in the back of a car. 

Fifth mistake. Thomas is legitimately insulted. 

It galls him, genuinely. It’s infuriating as much as it benefits him on this occasion, because he’s spent the last week since he’d gotten that call making sure he knows everything there is to know about his father’s old friend, had wanted to know what he was dealing with and whether he was any kind of a threat at all, and to not be offered that same courtesy is downright disrespectful. Blaire hasn't thought to look into him, because they wouldn't be sat here now, like this, if he had. It’s like Thomas is the only one in this entire fucking industry to put a little thought into their enemies. It’s exasperating.

If no one else takes the time to really _learn_ their opponents, if all they’re about is an excuse for violence with nothing to back it up, it’s no fucking wonder nobody has ever come close to being his equal. 

“-thought it probably best for you both that Dylan was busy while we have this chat, eh?” Blaire says, pushing a glass across the table at Thomas and beaming. 

_For you both_ , like they’d been children mutually fighting in the yard over the same toy, instead of Thomas kicking his teeth in and taking a broken cue to both of his hands. Like the guy hadn’t cried and apologized for putting them where he shouldn’t, like he hadn’t _thanked_ Thomas through his tears for not taking his dick off for even suggesting Thomas couldn’t use his own properly, which was almost funny, now that he’d calmed down about it. As if Thomas couldn’t have Alex coming apart in under three minutes if he wanted to. Which he had, afterward. As if he couldn’t drag it out for so long that Alex screamed for him. 

Which he’d done later, just to prove the point.

He knows the game Blaire is trying to play, as much as it rankles. This whole thing is straight from his father’s textbook; overly friendly, toothy grin while you threaten them and smile pleasantly like you’re the best of buddies as the knife goes in. It sets his teeth on edge, the way he can almost hear his father’s voice overtop of Blaire’s, laced in the easy drawl that he tries not to hate in his own voice, having already had to sit through too much of it the night before to confirm his research, because Thomas is _thorough_. He’d needed to know for certain that he hadn’t overlooked anything, that there wasn’t about to be any blackmail material thrown his way, that there wasn’t one of Blaire’s boys back home keeping an eye on his mother or his sister, just in case, that he was free and clear to deal with this however he’d seen fit without issue.

Maybe offer him a generous check for whatever amount he obviously desperately needed. 

As a _loan_ , of course. 

Thomas’s interest rates are killer. 

He hadn’t quite gotten that far last night; had wanted to go home and sleep on it because he’d partly wanted to tell Blaire to go fuck himself and watch his life fall apart from a distance and partly wanted to tie him up in so much debt to him that Thomas could beat it out of both him and his asshole nephew in payment for the next decade. Tough call, and one he doesn’t have to make now his hand has been forced; now he just wants Blaire dead. Soft bump or not, the man had _run him off the fucking road._

If that hadn’t been enough to seal his fate, the way Blaire follows up his comment on his nephew with one on _Alex_ definitely is, and Thomas bristles as Blaire hums _spirited little thing you got there_ , wants to curl his hands around his throat just like his voice curls around those words with an obvious desire to _break_ that spirit. As if _spirited_ could ever encompass Alexander. 

_Do you let him go for everyone like that_ he criticizes and then shakes his head when Thomas says _I let him do whatever he thinks is necessary_ , because even trying to play along he can’t bring himself to pretend that he has any control over Alex, that he even _wants_ it. Blaire favors him a patronizing look and a _he doesn’t know who’s in charge._

“Oh, he knows,” Thomas says with finality, doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t roll his eyes, _doesn’t like how they’re still discussing Alex._

“Letting people get uppity like that and not expecting it to be turned back on you is what screwed your old man, my boy,” Blaire raises his eyebrows pointedly, like he’s he’s talking to a stupid, lovestruck teenager who doesn’t know his own asshole from his elbow.

 _I am not my father_ Thomas wants to spit back, right in his face, wretchedly offended and smug all at once, because he’s spent the last fifteen years making sure that’s true, but he doesn’t. He focuses on the stray hairs making their best effort to start a monobrow in the center of the man’s forehead so that it looks enough like he’s maintaining eye contact while he wills his temper under control, because if he actually looks, he might slip at that implication. It makes sense now, that Blaire thinks he’s dealing with unruly, emotional, naive little version of Peter; capricious and prone to often-unexplained violence and so damn narcissistic that he never conceived of anyone wanting to put him in the ground until it had happened. 

Thomas may have his flaws, but he’d been well-exposed to his father’s for long enough to know to avoid those particular pitfalls, though that clearly hardly counts for much when half of Virgina only ever sees Peter when they look at him. It pisses him off more than he can express that he can’t shake the man, that he’s still stuck with that legacy, that he’s just that little bit _too much_ like his father, in his tone, in his temperament, for his mother not to flinch whenever he moves too suddenly; to not make her nervous even though he’s never given her reason to be. He hates it so much that he mostly stays in New York and lets her manage the estate in peace while she lasts. Sometimes he even thinks about trying to get Alex to go home to Monticello with him, just for a long weekend, driven by the desire to demonstrate that vast difference to her, not entirely sure why it matters so much to him, but it does. Surely it would be obvious the second Alex opens that mouth of his that Thomas has never and could never raise a hand to him like that, that it may be seldom and rare but that Thomas is _capable_ of loving, of drawing the distinction between people he gives a fuck about and people he doesn’t, where he’s convinced his father wasn’t. But then, that’s probably just an exercise in cruelty, to reopen that wound and imply that she’d never been loved at all, that none of them had, whether that’s his belief or not.

Besides, what’s between he and Alex is _between he and Alex_ , and Thomas likes it that way. He likes that the depth and detail of it is just for them; it’s nobody else’s fucking business as long as they manage to understand that Alex isn’t to be fucked with, and he doesn’t know whether Blaire is suicidal or just that damn stupid to pick at that thread, but when Thomas crosses his arms over his chest and reinforces that point, retorts that _Alexander isn’t people_ , he smiles.

“Quite,” he says, sitting up a little straighter as he finds his mark. “Well y’all gotta be careful. Sure would be a right shame if something ugly were to happen to him-” he pauses unsubtly in a way that Thomas doesn’t need him to, because there’s already a roaring in his ears and the phantom weight of Alex bleeding to death suddenly pressing on his arms. “-wouldn’t it.”

Final mistake; Thomas sees red; his vision almost blurs with how angry he is as Blaire continues _now, we never really got to finish talking about your financial investment_ ; going for broke, and Thomas wonders if this had always been the threat he’d intended to make, his plan to ostensibly shake Thomas up, intimidate and scare him and then threaten Alex to ensure his compliance or whether Thomas had handed that better option to him with his defensiveness. 

Either way, Thomas could probably have sat here all evening and puzzled out exactly what he’d been thinking when he’d started this charade, maybe he'd even have agreed to his demands and come back later to demonstrate his change of mind, long and slow, but that’s not an option anymore. Thomas is suddenly so far beyond caution that it’s laughable. He’s crossed a line that Thomas won’t tolerate, threatening Alex; made a choice that all the restraint and control Thomas possesses won’t protect him from feeling the consequences of, and it’s easy, really, with his arms already crossed over his chest, to reach inside his jacket, get a hand around his knife and strike over the table like a serpent, right across his throat. 

He wants to take a second to enjoy the flood of satisfaction that washes through him at the spray of crimson, at the burbling shock as he tries to reach for his neck, but that will come after, after he’s rounded the table, after he’s reached inside Blaire’s jacket for the pistol he’d seen there earlier, after he’s opened the kitchen door and put two bullets in thing one and thing two before they can even properly react, quick and perfunctory but not exactly rewarding, just necessary. After _that_ is when he can pull out his chair to sit and watch the man now slumped on the floor, gurgling and bleeding out; that roaring monster in his ears appeased and captivated at the red on his hands, up his jacket, pooling thick and dark on the floor. 

Thomas doesn’t speak; doesn’t say _you’re a fucking idiot_ or _you shouldn’t have threatened him_ , because it would be redundant, because he’s not a supervillain, and because it’s more exciting, more alluring to sit there in silence and listen to the man die. 

~~~

Fifteen minutes later after he’s made sure he’s now definitely the only one in the house, Thomas has just cracked open Blaire’s briefcase - because why not make sure he’s got nothing useful or interesting going on while he’s here - when gravel crunches and a car pulls up outside. He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he steps into the unlit front room, gun in hand, to peer through the darkened windows; maybe Dylan, he supposes, is his best guess, but he’s not expecting one of his own damn cars, or _Alex_. Alex still in his work suit and looking pissed off. He’s definitely not expecting Alex to glare at him quite so ferociously when he cracks the front door and says _what the fuck_. 

“What, you can’t answer a fucking phone now, you fuckin selfish-” Alex explodes, incensed, so fucking loud that it echoes down the quiet lane, loud enough that Thomas drags him quickly into the house by the collar and gestures for Monty to cut the headlights.

“What the fuck,” Thomas repeats a second later, stood in the hall, utterly confused. “What the fuck are you doing here.”

“You were late,” Alex snaps, like that makes any fucking sense at all, and smacks him on the arm. _Hard._ “Your bashed-up car is in impound and you were _late_ and you can't _answer a fucking phone_. You fucking _asshole_.” Thomas frowns at him.

“Are you really expecting me to apologize for getting half-kidnapped?” 

“Yes,” Alex retorts, and punches him again, though there’s a wary look in his eyes that Thomas can’t read, like a cornered animal, and he lets out a deep, painful-sounding exhale and his fingers grip Thomas’s sleeve. “You’re okay.”

Thomas is momentarily offended at the slight, because of course he’s fucking _okay_ , he’d been _okay_ all fucking day. To suggest that this was anything at all to be _not okay_ about is almost insulting, but then he looks again and Alex’s fingers are shaking where they’re digging in to his arm, all tense energy and and it’s not until he says it again, _you’re okay_ , quiet and to himself that he recognizes the expression on Alex’s face and places where he’d seen it before. 

That expression had been playing on repeat in his head for weeks after Reynolds had tried to have a go at Alex, after Alex had made such a glorious mess of him and the ice in Thomas’s stomach and in his veins had played second fiddle to the desperate need to get hands on Alexander immediately, both painfully hard and crushingly disappointed that he hadn’t been there to see it happen. He’d followed the sound of running water and thought Alex might have already been showering, but he hadn’t, had been slumped back against the bathroom wall with his eyes closed and his red teeth digging into his own lip and his pants at his knees with a hand around himself because he was fucking _perfect_ like that. 

Thomas had told him so as he pushed inside him on the bathroom floor, growled it into his coppery mouth and Alex had bucked under him and guided him purposefully until Thomas was gripping one wrist and his upper arm, had moaned when Thomas had squeezed too-tight in understanding because if he was going to have fucking bruises they were damn well going to be the size and shape of Thomas’s hands, and afterward Thomas had asked _did he hurt you_ , low and deadly.

 _No, I’m fine_ Alexander had said, shaking his head, but there was something odd twisting his face as he’d finally come down from the adrenaline rush, had breathed in deep, and he’d said it again, eyes closed, repeated _I’m fine_ , quiet and reassuring, like he wasn’t saying it to Thomas anymore. _He scared you_ , Thomas had realized abruptly, because of course he had, because Alex didn’t lose his shit that viscerally unless he’d been pushed to the edge, and he’d never wanted to break someone’s neck more in his entire life. Alex’s sudden, vicious glare and the _shut the fuck up_ had been as good a confirmation as he would ever get, and just when he’d been certain that Reynolds wouldn’t be leaving his house alive, Alex’s eyes had flashed and he’d said _I’m going to fucking ruin him,_ and who was Thomas to spoil that for him. 

Still, it’s that look that he remembers, that he sees in Alex’s face now, as he says _you’re okay_ a third time, cuts his gaze away and grits his teeth, inhales sharply and nods, accepts it, and it sobers Thomas instantly, dries up all his affront as he’s reminded that Alex might be wild but that didn’t mean he was never scared, and he’s not sure what to do about it when it’s _him_ that’s caused it, except feel like an ass, isn’t too keen on the idea of breaking his own legs, so in the end he just agrees; _yeah, I’m okay_ and nods his head at the dining room when Alex wants to know where Blaire is, says _I already dealt with it._

Alex takes one look at the body, glares darkly, and then kicks it squarely in the face, so hard that there’s an impressive crack and spray of red up the wall that Thomas appreciates aesthetically, and when he snorts and asks _feel better now?_ Alex grits out a stubborn _no, not yet_ and goes in for another one, angry and vengeful and probably even more pissed off purely because he’d been _scared_. Thomas leaves him to it, leans up against the door and waits, because he’s not going to lie, he’s been half-hard since the first swing of his knife and if this is going to ease some of that tension for Alex, then he’s more than happy to watch until it’s done some good, until at least some of the angry stiffness has leeched from his shoulders, until Thomas can smooth his hands along them without the danger of being shaken off and pushed away, until Alex huffs and scowls _I was gonna gouge his smarmy fucking eyes out and set him and his shitty dump of a house on fire._

He’s still vibrating with unspent energy, even with his temper abated, and Thomas curses his own impetuousness even as he’s glad to have kept Blaire from even laying eyes on Alex again, because twenty more minutes of keeping his temper in check and he might have gotten to see that play out; Alex, hands red, making someone scream, and fate really fucking hates him, surely, because he _missed his fucking chance._

He pulls Alex tight to him and his lover softens a little at the feel of how much Thomas appreciates the thought of that, rubs up against him with a sigh and his scowl dissolves into a petulant little pout that Thomas bites at, sinks teeth into his stuck out lip, fisting the denim over his ass when he moans and wraps his arms around Thomas’s neck tight, like he’s preparing to hold his weight in case Thomas hoists him up around his waist any second, because he fucking loves it like that, and Thomas loses himself in the thought for a second, that he could do this, Alex would let him. Thomas could fuck him right here in the middle of a crime scene, give him a way to work out that lingering energy, have him come looking at Thomas’s handiwork-

He can’t get _that_ carried away, he needs to stay alert. He’s been here too long, already, really, and he still has a job to do, still wants to finish inspecting those papers, still needs to clean down. Except. Except there’s another possibility there now; something else he can give to Alex instead, because he says it enough offhand that Thomas knows he really fucking wants it. It’s bordering on risky, but it would do the clean up for him, would maybe look enough like an insurance job, and Alex looks so damn put-out that he can’t help but soothe _maybe when I’m done you can burn it down anyway, love_ and he’s fucked, really, because Alex’s eyes go hot and bright at the same time and his breath hitches in this interesting little way that pushes _maybe_ right out of the window and he knows he’s definitely going to let Alex go ahead and do whatever the fuck he wants, regardless of _risky_.

As always. 

He does what he needs, and when he’s finished inside he steps out to tell Monty to shift the car and get rid of any tracks in the dirt, stops on the way to press his lips to Alexander’s, wrap a hand around the back of his neck and lick inside his mouth to see if there are sparks on his tongue to match the ones in his eyes, flashing bright as he paces around, antsy, waiting, until Alex pulls away and raises an impatient eyebrow and gripes _are you fuckin done yet, princess_. Thomas smacks him hard on the ass as he leaves, tells him not to take too fucking long, watches his hungry gaze flicker away and focus elsewhere in concentration and Thomas knows he’s chasing that thrill of violence and _risk_ that he adores and also riding the eager rush of doing something new and unknown. It must be a heady combination and it’s really no wonder Thomas comes back to find him stood outside, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he can’t not move, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes wide and dark and intent and fixed on the violent, flickering glow visible through the front room window. 

Alex watches the house. Thomas watches Alex. 

They both burn.

Alex is mesmerized, and Thomas knows that behind those sharp eyes he’s cataloging, committing every detail to memory so that he can learn from this; is probably generating himself a million more questions with each one getting answered right now because that’s how Alex thinks, probably set it a particular way just to see _how it will spread if I do this_ or maybe _what happens if I do that_ but it’s more than that, too, as the inside of the house starts to look like a bastardized oil burner and the sound of muffled creaking and breaking punctures the cold night. His breathing is shallow and there’s arousal twisting his expression, eyes almost as fierce as the flame in front of him, savage and wild and base, and it’s always there in him, but having it so openly displayed while he stands still for Thomas to drink his fill is beautiful.

Alexander is living, breathing, human fire and it makes Thomas want to touch him for the thrill of knowing he won’t get burned. He presses up behind him, reaches around to palm him where he’s rock hard and noses at the skin behind his ear. He smells like a fuckton of kerosene and a hint of cinnamon and Thomas wasn’t prepared for this level of grandeur, it’s going to garner a lot of attention he hadn’t planned for so they don’t have long, maybe five more minutes before he’s going to want to get moving just to be safe.

“We can’t stay long, kitten,” he says, low and rough, apology in his tone and in the way he tugs Alex’s pants open rough and hasty and slides his hand inside, urgency in the way he starts to jerk him off quick and dirty. Alex melts back against him, grips tight to Thomas's arm, fucks his hips forward into his grip and groans as they watch the glow spread and surge through the darkened windows and _god_ , but Thomas wants him right now. He’s hard enough to cut glass himself and this has never been his thing, but the way it’s doing it for Alex has him almost itching with the need to be inside him, scorching heat around him as well as in front, wants to watch his face by flickering firelight as he comes on Thomas’s cock to the sound of cracking wood, but he can’t. He needs to stay focused and aware, for the both of them. He can give this to Alex again, when he’s sure they’re safer. Hell, he’ll take Alex far away and let him burn his way across half a state where no one knows their names, until his face is scalding red from being too close to flame and he smells like nothing but smoke and Thomas and sex, if that’s what he wants.

Thomas bites down on the back of his neck and covers his mouth when he shouts out and arches his back, whispers his regret against soft skin, “Gonna do this again when we have more time, baby, I promise. You can watch it properly until there’s nothing left but ash and dust and I’ll be so fucking deep in you the entire time you won’t even be able to burn fucking toast afterward without getting hard ever again. _Fuck, Alex_.”

The front windows blow out with a crash, thick pillar of flame licking out viciously like a serpent’s tongue, cracking the wood above and Alex comes hard with a start, muffling his yell into Thomas’s hand, twitching and shuddering against him for a long few seconds and Thomas has to take a few deep breaths before he can bear to lose the weight of him up against his own dick, before he bundles him reluctantly down the empty dirt road and into the car, breathless and blissed while Thomas goes back and clears away any traces that they ever stood there.

Alex gets on his knees in the back of the car and says his emphatic _thank you_ and _I love you,_ both verbally and physically, before they even get ten minutes down the road, gives not a single fuck that they’re still moving, and _really,_ Thomas thinks - as he runs his bloodstained hands through dark hair gently and makes sure all Monty will be able to see if he dares to look is the back of Alex’s head in his lap, all Thomas's and right where he belongs - _it could have been a worse day._

~~~

Alexander isn’t in bed with him when he wakes just after dawn and it’s an unpleasant enough sensation compared to the morning before and the night before, that Thomas gets up as well, shuffles around the annex a little tensely until he relaxes when he finds Alex slumped at the kitchen table with James, spaced out over a steaming cup, both of them sitting in surprisingly companionable silence while James reads the paper and Alex blinks blearily at nothing. It’s weird and he looks between them, confused as he grabs his own coffee and sits too, not sure whether he’s woken up in the twilight zone by mistake. They communicate in sniping and eye rolls most of the time - which is Alexander’s standard mode of communication but James sinks to that level regularly too when they’re in the same room, no matter how much Thomas keeps trying to make them hold an actual conversation - and so this peaceful atmosphere is disconcerting to say the least.   
  
He’s unnerved and distracted enough by it that when James holds out a hand and asks for his phone, Thomas just hands it over, before blinking and frowning at his own reflexive compliance and going to take it back, but James has already scooted out of reach and passed it to Alex, who’s got a fucking mini screwdriver and tweezers from somewhere.

“Erm,” Thomas says eloquently, “What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

“He’s putting a tracker in it.” James says honestly, eyes back on his paper. 

“He’s fucking _not_.” Thomas growls. “Alex, _no_.”

“Alex, _yes_.” Alex says ridiculously, obviously not even halfway through his first caffeine fix of the day, not even bothering to look up from where he’s bent over the table prying open the back of Thomas’s phone. He pulls it protectively towards himself when Thomas goes to snatch it back and James whacks the back of Thomas’s hand lightly with the newspaper. Thomas looks at him in shock.

“Carry on,” James says to Alex, who just makes an agreeing noise and nods approvingly, pulls something small and wrapped in plastic out of his pocket. 

“Stop encouraging him.” Thomas snaps, bewildered, but he’s not entirely sure which one of them he’s speaking to and it doesn’t matter anyway because they both ignore him. He abruptly, _violently_ regrets wishing they’d get along, because he can see the danger in this situation now, in how James is going to get what he wants here, because Thomas doesn’t win fights with Alexander, and somehow they’re _agreeing_. When the _fuck_ did he lose all control here? “I’m not carrying around a tracker, this is fucking ridiculous.”

James glares at him, and it’s strained enough that Thomas pauses in his building annoyance. He looks fucking _tired_. “If you’re just going to wander off and disappear and scare the shit out of us, you damn well _are_. I swear to all that is holy, Thomas, if _this_ is what I need to do to make sure we can go a fucking month without someone being _shot_ or going fucking _missing_ so I can get some _goddamn sleep_ , then so be it.”

“And what if I need to _not_ be tracked?” Thomas says stubbornly, in lieu of disagreeing, because he’s thinking of how he’d slept a little easier after James had somehow gotten Alex to wear that fucking vest even though Thomas hadn’t even tried to suggest such a thing, because he’d thrown such a fit over the bodyguard situation he’d known it was another fight he wouldn’t win.

“Then you’ll just take James with you.” Alex says with finality, slotting a tiny chip into the mess of green plastic and metal inside Thomas’s phone. He’s never going to be able to locate that by himself. He’s going to need a new phone. James flicks a surprised little glance at the top of Alex’s head like he’s maybe gone a little off-script but nods his agreement and tries to distract Thomas with business until it’s finished; says pointedly _we need to talk about replacing some people. Starting with Jeffrey, he’s out of action_ and it works for a second, because he’d assumed there’d been some tension the night before, that he had some work to do, when Alex had rested his head on Thomas’s shoulder and grumbled _half your guys are ready to write you off, y’know_ which was fucking insulting, but he supposes Jeffrey is no loss. Thomas has been wanting to shaft him out for a while anyway, so he considers it good fortune until Alex snorts unkindly at James’s tone and mutters _not sorry, motherfucker deserved it_ and oh wait, _what_. 

The entire universe really is conspiring against him. For _fuck’s sake_ , all he wants is to see his boyfriend make someone _bleed_. Is that too much to ask? 

_Goddamn it._

He refrains from asking for James to describe it, because he thinks that might be a little much even for his friend to cope with, and besides, there’s no need to escalate the jealousy already pooling in his stomach at the thought that James had gotten to witness, the notion that even though all of Alex is _his_ , he hasn’t seen _all_ of Alex. There are parts of him that other people have seen that Thomas _hasn’t_ ; he’s not always with Thomas, beside him, _under_ him, every morning and every night like he should be.

“You should move in here,” Thomas says as the thought strikes him. James huffs and scoffs _what, because he stabbed a guy, that's just great_ but it’s exasperated and light, and more for the sake of it than anything and they both ignore him.

“Okay,” Alex shrugs, without looking up. Simply, like he had the other night, agreeing to let someone carve Thomas’s name into his skin, like it didn’t tie Thomas in knots how easily he agreed; the implication that he’s so obviously, already completely Thomas’s that there was no consideration needed, and while he objectively knows that, it’s always overwhelming to have it demonstrated so succinctly. “I’ll need an office.”

“You could share my study.” Thomas absolutely doesn’t let himself consider how little work he’d get done in that case, because it would be worth it.

“I could,” Alex acknowledges. “But I won’t. You whistle. It’s annoying.”

“I do not.”

“Yes you do,” James agrees, starting in on the crossword, and Thomas is already completely sick of whatever truce they’ve managed to broker, and also annoyed that they’d actually succeeded in managing to distract him long enough that Alex is carefully replacing the back panel of his phone, looking satisfied with himself and offering it across the table. Thomas shakes his head. 

“No, I'm not-”

“Thomas,” Alex says seriously, looks up through the mess of hair that has fallen into his face while he worked. He’s got a shadow of that same wary, scared expression in his eyes as he had last night and it has the same sobering effect as it did then. “Shut the fuck up and take your phone, please.”

Thomas sighs, shuts the fuck up and takes his phone. 

Just for a bit, to make them feel better, he tells himself.

He’ll make them take it out when they’ve calmed down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, you guys, that summary is for real. I tried so hard to write something where Alex busted in to help save Thomas, but it never worked, however I came at it, because Thomas just wouldn't have it. Thomas is badass all on his own, y'all. When I eventually gave up on that (before this whole story was ever posted), it ended up turning into an interesting little look at how the trauma of the shooting is still kinda messing with them all in different ways and had them OVERREACTING, which was much more my thing, both to write, and the overreacting thing. So yeah, that's what we ended up with.
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed something with more than one chapter?

**Author's Note:**

> [Work title inspired by lyrics from: No one is watching you now, by 'Til Tuesday]


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